The Trial of Snow White
by darcyfarrow
Summary: Set after "Welcome to Storybrooke." Gold offers a way to help Mary Margaret recover from her depression: putting her on trial for Cora's murder.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue: The Price

**A/N. A little personal wish fulfillment, set after "Welcome to Storybrooke."**

* * *

"_The absence of the Witch does not/Invalidate the spell"—_

"Long Years apart can make no—"_ Emily Dickinson_

The shop door banged against the wall, so hard had it been shoved open as David and Emma barreled in. Only later did it register with Emma that the little customer service bell above the door hadn't rung: much later, she learned Gold had tired of its constant interruptions of his restoration work and had disconnected it.

"Gold! You have to help us," David blurted, even before Gold emerged from his workroom.

The cane tapped smartly against the wooden floor as Gold passed through the curtain separating the workroom from the store. "I'm a wealthy man who owes neither money nor favors to anyone. I don't 'have to' do anything, Mr. Nolan."

Emma tried to smooth ruffled feathers. "He didn't mean it that way and you know it. He's rattled, like we all are, because Mary Margaret's so depressed she can't get out of bed. You'd be just as shaken up if it was Belle—" And then she realized what she had said and clamped her mouth shut.

"It is Belle," Gold corrected in a low voice. "Suffering, depressed, and beyond the reach of her loved ones."

Emma bit her lip. "I'm sorry. Let us start over, okay?"

David took her lead. "We need your help. _Mary Margaret_ needs your help."

Gold moved behind one of his counters, creating a barrier between them and him. It was not lost on him that David was attempting to take advantage of one of Rumplestiltskin's few weaknesses: like almost everyone else in the Enchanted Forest, the imp had fallen into a special fondness for Snow.

"Archie's talked and talked to her, but he can't get her to budge. Granny's been over a dozen times, all the dwarves, the kids from school—nobody can cheer her up," David said.

"This is Cora's final attempt to destroy Snow and achieve Regina's admiration," Gold replied. "Not many of us achieve victory from beyond the grave. It's up to you whether Cora wins or not."

"Then there is a choice," Emma butted in hastily. "If there is a choice, there must be a way for us to beat this. . . this curse."

"I suppose you could consider it thus, metaphorically. Though there's no magic involved, only the work of a master in the art of psychological manipulation and torture." Gold's face darkened.

He'd never admit to it, but Emma had a strong hunch as to why he looked ready to bite the head off a rabid bat: she suspected he too had been a victim of that master, probably more than once. The thought suddenly flashed into Emma's mind that perhaps Cora had provided Hook with the poison that had nearly killed Gold, perhaps even used magic to determine Gold's whereabouts and sent Hook on his merry way. How else could Hook have known where in this wide world to find one then-ordinary man? Cora may have been a whole lot smarter than Storybrooke had given her credit for. . . smarter perhaps than even Rumplestiltskin?

Ever practical, David cut to the chase. "Do whatever magic you need to do to cure her. Whatever the price is, I'll pay it."

"Careful, dearie," Gold muttered, "I smell desperation, and that's a dangerous scent on you. As it was on your wife." He picked up a rag and pretended to dust the clean counter, granting David a moment to collect his poise.

But David wouldn't take the moment. Instead he pounced, as a cub on a sleeping elder tiger might, taking advantage of what he perceived to be an advantage: Gold's seeming concern. "She's been like this for five days! She won't go to work, she won't eat, she won't talk to us—"

"I saw her condition for myself, remember?" Gold interrupted.

David got up in the sorcerer's face. "Then you know she's wasting away. What are you going to do about it, 'dearie'?"

With two fingers, Gold pressed against the knight's chest, effectively pushing him back. "And why should I do anything?" From the corner of his eye he saw an objection forming on Emma's lips, and he directed his next comment to her, fully aware that this would be news to her. "Which, I suspect, is precisely what you said when you became aware of the conditions to which your guards were subjecting me after you conned me into your prison."

Gold's lips peeled back, revealing his teeth. "Or need I remind you, Prince Charming? Is your memory of the good old days a little rusty? You threw me into a damp, dark cell carved into an abandoned mine and lined with fairy dust—a substance which not only robs my kind of any magical abilities but also makes us ill, and in large enough doses or long enough exposure, can cause cancer. And in that cell, with its average nighttime temperature of 42 degrees, what was it now that you provided for comfort? A bed? Hmm, no, no bed. A chair? No, not a chair either. A blanket? Not a single thread. Water? Yes, there was water, a bucket brought in every morning—after the guards had taken turns pissing in it.

"For exercise—ah, now there, your guards were quite thoughtful. I was provided several opportunities for exercise, running from their whips and swords and torches, dodging the rocks and buckets of slop they threw at me. And what did your guards feed me at the end of the day when I was too tired to run any more? Oh yes, a meal from the royal kitchens, prepared, I'm sure, by your own chef: a plate of cold, meatless pottage—oh, forgive me, prince, I exaggerate: there was meat—the meat of a cupful of maggots that garnished the plate.

"And to break the monotony of the one hundred and twenty-one days I was a guest of your prison, did you send me books? Did you provide a window so I could have some sense of the world outside? Did you send me visitors? If the rats and worms that shared my cell could be considered company, then I suppose I must admit, I had visitors.

"You call Cora the epitome of cruelty and Regina the queen of torture. But you, Prince Charming, were not so very far behind."

Emma stifled a gasp, giving Gold the small satisfaction of knowing that, when father and daughter went home tonight and were safe from public oversight, David would have a lot of explaining to do to win back Emma's respect.

Gold seemed to suddenly remember the dust rag, and he resumed his unnecessary chore, but not before a quick glance informed him David had the decency to redden. Pretending to rearrange some merchandise so he could dust a shelf in his cabinet, Gold picked up an object—and then stared at it, remembering its origin: a worn old leather kickball.

"_You're different now. You see it, don't you? You hurt people all the time."_

Rumplestiltskin/Gold had carried his pain, every second of it—every insult, every slight, every push, every slap, every kick. . .and worst of all, every abandonment—for so long it had putrefied and petrified until it had become immobile, insoluble, and nearly all-consuming in him. Nearly—except for the little light that managed to break through, the fragile sliver of light through which his love for Bae and Belle survived. And among the amazing properties of that light was the power to forgive, though it had gone long unused. As he rearranged the leather ball, he suddenly felt the foreign urge to use that power, to put the hatred behind.

"_You were once a good man."_

As Snow had done for him, when she spared his life. As would make Bae proud. As would overjoy Belle, if she still possessed her memories and had the context to understand the change.

"_There's still good in you. I see it. I've always seen it."_

Something had happened to him, five days ago, when he had made his peace with the world and had released his grip on life. Maybe that inner light had bored its way through the boulder of pain. Maybe, through the sacrifices Bae and the Charmings had made—yes, to protect themselves from the witches, but to protect him too—he'd been forced to admit he needed help, needed other people. Or maybe he had just gotten tired of all the effort it takes to remain forever angry with everyone. He wanted to let it go. But he was still hurting, the wounds still weeping as though freshly made. He needed help to forgive them.

As—it occurred to him—Snow needed help to forgive herself.

"_Why don't you just give up this obsession with vengeance? You know it will never make you happy."_

David, barely out of boyhood when he had become the leader of the land, had grown up a bit too since the savior came to town. Gold came to realize that now as David raised eyes full of shame and regret and said, offering no defense or excuse, "I'm sorry. I knew what was going on and I allowed it, to keep you weak so we could control you. It was an inhumane thing for me to do, and ungrateful, after the help you had given me and Snow to find each other. I was wrong. I hope you'll forgive me."

Emma's eyes, which widened in surprise at first, now shone with pride. This was the Prince Charming she'd expected: this was the father she deserved.

Gold's hands froze. For the minute it took David to voice his apology, the impenetrable mask slipped and Gold allowed them to see him stunned—and needful of this apology. Then David hesitantly extended a hand, not sure if it would be accepted in friendship or sliced off, and Gold blinked and a mask dropped down again, but not the hard, smug mask of before: a mask of unflappability, but through which honest eyes offered a cautious trust.

Gold shook David's hand. "That was my price." He picked up his cane and came out from behind the counter. They trailed him to the door. He started to flip the window sign to "closed," then shrugged and yanked the sign down and tossed it aside. He held the door open, and when Emma and David had passed through, he locked it. But just before they climbed into the squad car, he held up a staying hand and addressed them both. "I. . . I too ask forgiveness. . . for the threats I made against you, the traps I laid. . . the ingratitude I showed for the times you helped me."

David nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Gold." And Emma squeezed the pawnbroker's arm.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1: Of Innocence and Experience

Gold winced as David slid into the shotgun seat of the squad car: that left only the backseat available, and for the town landlord to be seen riding in the backseat of a police vehicle could never be good for business. But with nowhere else to go, Gold slid into the seat and sat with his eyes locked forward, his chin raised in defiance of any gossip this trip might inspire.

As Emma shifted into Drive, David twisted around to face Gold. "Something I've wondered about."

Gold raised an eyebrow, a small gesture granting permission to ask the question, but offered no other encouragement.

"You signing that contract with Ella—it was too easy. A guy who can see the future shouldn't have fallen for a trick like that."

For a long moment, Gold studied the prince from the corner of his eye. Finally, satisfied there was no trick in the question itself, Gold answered, "Seeing the future is simply a skill. _Reading_ the future is a talent. And seeing and reading one's own future accurately is practically an impossibility."

David persisted, "You knew the contract was a trick, though. You as much as said so even while you were signing it."

"I did."

"Why'd you do it? Why'd you let us catch you?"

"Those one hundred twenty-one days in prison were my down payment. As it happened, it was a much steeper price than I had expected to pay. There was little you could or would do to me, I assumed: you couldn't execute me; I was an immortal. With the curse coming soon, I expected my imprisonment to be short and possibly—knowing your sense of humanity and Snow's kindness—relatively comfortable."

Emma glanced at him through the rear view mirror. "What were you making a down payment on that was so expensive?"

Gold stared out the window, glaring at Granny, coming out of the grocery store. "The most costly purchase of all: the introduction of magic into a world it was never intended to exist in."

"You ready to tell us now why you did that?" Emma prodded. "Or is that still a 'not telling' thing?"

"My intended purpose has been satisfied."

"Neal."

"Considering the recent assaults upon our peace and quiet, however, I believe I'll find continuing use for the magic." He finally met Emma's eyes through the mirror. "And you, Princess Emma—I understand your reluctance to employ your newly discovered gifts, but I think you'll find, as I have, sometimes there is no choice but to resort to the use of magic, and you'll just have to accept the costs. Only magic can fight magic."

"All I want is a nice, quiet, normal life. You know what would be a perfect day for me? A day where the problems I have to deal with are, like, arresting a florist for stealing a teacup. Not dodging magically produced fireballs and chasing down stolen daggers."

"I'm afraid those days will be a long time in coming, Sheriff."

David asked, "Is that you seeing the future again?"

"It's me knowing a born hero when I see one."

* * *

They found Mary Margaret sitting up in her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, her hair uncombed, her clothes and her face creased from days of thrashing about in bed sleeplessly. Henry sat at the foot of his grandmother's bed, his storybook spread across his lap, but he'd given up reading to her hours ago. Emma knelt beside him, whispered something, handed him his jacket and his backpack, and he left silently.

"Sent him to Ruby's?" David asked quietly, and Emma nodded. They drew the dining room chairs toward the bed and seated themselves, far enough away to give Gold space, but close enough that they could provide any support he required.

Gold stood, in his usual stiff posture, beside the bed, his hands folded atop his cane. "Snow." When she didn't respond, he repeated her name louder, more firmly.

She stared at her knees and said sourly, "I suppose you're here to gloat."

His face remained expressionless. "Why would I do that?"

She finally looked at him. "Because you won. Cora's dead, you're alive, you've got your dagger back, and I'm a murderer. Four wins in one stroke; quite a coup."

"I've never wished you ill, Snow." His voice softened. "Your husband, yes, but never you. If you'll think back on our interactions in this world and the other, you may believe me when I tell you I've always thought it true what was said of you: 'the fairest of them all'—as fair of heart as you are of face."

"Not any more!" She snapped. "Not any more. Black at heart! A murderer!"

"The fact that the killing of Cora troubles you as it does is proof that you're no murderer."

Snow swung onto her knees to set herself at eye level with him. "Regina yanked my heart out and showed it to me. It was _black_! She said she didn't have to bother to kill me; I was killing myself. I'm becoming as evil as she is!"

"You have a very long way to go before you can make that statement, Snow." Gold shifted his feet, taking his weight off his bad ankle. "But she's right about one thing: you are killing yourself. And that is not acceptable—not to your family, not to this town, and not to your grandson, and therefore, not to me. I'm offering help, if you'll accept it."

"What can _you_ do? You're just as evil as Regina and Cora. Even if you could help me, I can't trust you." Her voice was raw with tears.

Gold lowered his eyes to the floor, his hair partially hiding his face. After a long moment, he said, "I'm sorry you feel that way, Snow. Of late, I've given you reason to distrust me. But your husband and your daughter and I have begun to mend fences, and though there is a lot of work ahead of us before anything like peace can be achieved. . . you risked your soul to save my life, and I owe you whatever help I can give."

David rose from his chair and knelt beside her on the bed, taking her hand. "Let him help, Mary Margaret. I'm afraid of what will happen to you—to us—if you don't."

"My BS detector says he's legit—this time," Emma added. "Let him try, and if he pulls anything shady, we'll kick his tail out of here."

"Give me just a moment," Gold urged. "At the least, allow me to make certain Regina was telling you the truth."

"How?" David asked.

"Let me look at the heart."

"No!" Snow protested. "It hurt worse than anything I've ever felt when Regina pulled it out of me. I won't go through that again."

"I can extract the heart without hurting you." Gold laid his hand on his chest. "I promise. So we can be sure your heart really is blackened, and see the extent of the damage."

Snow drew in a deep breath and hung her head as she considered the offer. At last she nodded.

"Lie back and try to relax. Close your eyes and breathe slowly."

Wiggling down into her pillows but still clutching David's hand, Snow obeyed. Without touching her, Gold passed his hand, now glowing softly, over her face and her chest. The crease between her eyebrows dissolved, her breathing deepened and slowed, the tension faded from her body. It was the first real rest she'd had in five days. Gold hesitated, reluctant to disturb it, but the task had to be completed. His hand hovered over her left side.

David could feel the energy flowing from the magic, working like a soft, warm towel applied to a sore muscle. The residual effect enabled him to relax too. For just a moment, David wondered if maybe Henry was wrong about magic. If it could give Snow this rest, could it be all bad?

Gold's hand moved toward Snow's chest and then vanished inside. A second later, his hand came out bearing a glowing, throbbing, crystalline thing.

Fascinated, Emma came to stand behind him, leaning over his shoulder to see the object.

"You can open your eyes now," Gold said. Holding it loosely, he brought the heart close to his eyes so he could examine it in detail.

"I don't feel it," Snow worried. "Is there something wrong with it?"

"It's a fine, healthy heart," Gold assured her. "A little larger than most people's. A little more. . . diamond-like. The reason you don't feel anything is I've applied a mild sedative to it." He raised the heart and studied it from different angles, until he finally found what he was looking for. He pointed it out to Emma: a dark spot the size of a dime in the center of the heart.

"Show me," Snow demanded—but when he did, she threw herself face-down into her pillows. "It's true." David stroked her hair and whispered to her, but he kept stealing glances at the heart.

"There are two explanations for this," Gold said. "Either evil truly has entered your soul, or you _believe_ it has." He nudged David aside and gently drew on Snow's arm until she turned over.

She glared at the heart as he brought it close to her chest, and she attempted to push his arm away. "Don't. Don't put it back. If you don't put it back, the evil won't spread through me."

Gold drew his hand away, but he said, "Cora thought she was better off without a heart." He was about to say more, but he suddenly shook his head and turned his face away.

"Gold," Emma asked quietly, "did you _care_ for Cora?"

He answers the question sideways, directing his reply to Snow. "That's the difference a heart makes, Snow. Do you really want to cut yourself off from your family and your friends? Do you really want to never love again?" When Snow didn't respond, he asked Emma to hold the heart. "David, may I?"

When he caught on, David nodded. If Snow could tolerate it, so could he. He lay back, allowing Gold's magic to numb his chest, and he watched with great curiosity as Gold withdrew his heart.

He turned the heart around, showing it to both of them, then to Emma. A black spot the size of a nickel was planted in its center.

"Me?" David gulped.

"I've seen a great many hearts in my time, Snow, and none of them was pure. No one gets through this life without some loss of innocence. It's a fact of life that each of us must learn to accept in ourselves and in others; it's why we need forgiveness. It's why we need love, to keep us from giving in to the darkness."

David withdrew into himself as Gold returned the heart to his chest. Gold then took Snow's heart back from Emma. He raised his eyebrows in inquiry. Snow sighed; he accepted that as permission to return her heart to her chest.

And then he extracted his own heart to show them. Darkness stretched like fingers throughout the heart, as they expected—but, as Emma pointed out, there was a surprising amount of healthy pink left.

"Okay," David said. "Maybe you're not all bad. Just mostly bad. Unless," he quirked his eyebrows toward Emma, "this is a trick?"

Emma shook her head. "The BS detector's still reading in the green." She turned to Gold. "You said there were two explanations for those spots. Actual evil or—"

"Perceived evil," Gold finished for her.

"What if it's that? What if Mary Margaret only thinks she's evil? Can her heart be fixed?"

"If that's the case, then what you saw is merely a shadow and yes, exposing a shadow to light makes the shadow disappear."

"How do we do that?" David asked.

Gold shifted his feet again, with a small wince, and Emma brought him a chair. As he lowered himself, he thanked her. Comfortable now, he answered, looking at Snow, "We show you the truth. Truth always comes with a risk. You may find that what you fear is true—though, having known you a long, long time, I don't think so. But knowing you, I also think if we go down this path, you'll experience additional pain. If you'll bear in mind, dear, that you have the power to turn your pain into wisdom, you'll be better for it."

Snow frowned. "But I'll learn the truth about myself?"

"Aye. The question to consider is, when you're shown the truth, will you accept it?"

Suspicion remained in her voice, for this was still the immortal and powerful sorcerer Rumplestiltskin hiding behind the mask of a sour, slight, middle-aged man. "What's your plan? Are you going to pour some potion over my heart? Cast some spell on me?"

"No magic. It was not the cause of the problem, so it's not the solution."

"What do you mean, 'not the cause'?" Snow's voice rose. "Of course it was the cause! Henry's right: magic is the cause of all our suffering here! It was that cursed candle that made me a murderer."

"You're wrong, child. I wish we could put the blame on magic; then we could be done with the guilt. But magic was just the instrument; it was your decision, your election of the choice to kill, that's troubling you. It's your choice we need to eliminate, not magic."

"It's done! I can't take it back! I can't change my choice!" She leaned forward, her fists opening and closing as if any additional provocation would prompt her to claw his face.

"You can," he insisted. "I can show you that the choice you think you made is not the choice you actually made."

"Riddles," Emma grumbled. "Get to the plan, Gold."

"It's a fact that Snow's actions led to Cora's death. It doesn't necessarily follow, however—though Snow thinks it does—that Snow committed murder. I propose we put the question to a jury. Let them determine whether what Snow did is the evil act of a dark soul—or the appropriate response of a mother protecting her family and her community from certain destruction."

David said slowly, "You want to put Mary Margaret on trial."

"For murder. Yes."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2: Lost and Found

"An actual trial? With a judge and a courtroom and—"

Emma bit her tongue before she finished her sentence, so Gold finished it for her: "A sentence, yes, if there's a guilty verdict." Gold stood, as though bringing the conversation to a close. "This being a rather unusual circumstance, with Snow herself being her only accuser—apart from Regina, whose judgment has proven faulty time and again—if, after the arguments conclude, the jury and the defendant still believe she has committed murder, the sentence will be determined by Her Majesty."

"Regina?!" Emma exclaimed. "Oh hell no—"

"Not Regina." Gold dipped his head toward Snow. "The rightful queen of the Enchanted Forest."

"What kind of trial is that?" Snow sputtered. "You'd let the defendant choose her own punishment?"

"You would be a lot harder on yourself than any of us would," Gold suggested. He started for the door. "Sheriff Swan, perhaps you'd be so good as to round up a jury and schedule the use of the court room? Prince David, I'd suggest you speak to the Blue Fairy about acting as judge. I will go back to my office to gather some reference material and will return at 1 pm. I suggest you all have a hearty lunch; you'll need the energy."

"Wait, you're going to—what? Defend her? Or prosecute her?" David thrust his hands on his hips, ready to argue if the answer positioned them as enemies.

Gold brushed past him without a glance. "Ms. Blanchard hired me to defend her before. I intend to finish the job."

"Then who's going to prosecute her?"

"That role," Gold opened the door and stepped through, finishing his reply as the door closed behind him, "will be filled by Regina."

"You can't actually want to go through with this," David protested, seating himself on the bed beside his wife.

"Of course not; it's ridiculous," Emma huffed. "Mr. Gold and his cockamamie schemes."

"No," Snow pressed a hand against David's chest. "I want to. He's right. I need to know if what I did was an act of self-defense or murder."

"Mary—" Emma corrected herself—"Mom. If we were out there in the real world—"

"Emma, this is the real world, for us."

"Fine. If we were out there, in Bangor or New York or whatever, there's no way this would go to trial. Gold's right about one thing: only two people in this entire world think you might have done something wrong, and one of them has been trying for years to kill you, so her opinion doesn't count. Now, how can you agree to this—this sick joke from that crazy old imp?"

"If he's crazy, it's because we had a hand in making him that way," David muttered. "One hundred and twenty-one days. . . ." He cradled Snow's hand in his own. "Are you sure, Snow? Sure this is what you need?"

She nodded, biting her lip. "I need to face the truth."

"All right." He kissed her palm and stood up. "I'll go out to the convent, then."

Emma threw her hands in the air in surrender. "Whatever. I'm going over to the courthouse—and order some take-out from Granny's. You take the squad car; I'll take my Bug."

* * *

As her family moved in their separate ways, Snow rested her chin against her propped up knee and wondered what arguments her attorney might make in her defense—Gold had a unique talent for justifying even the most horrendous of crimes. She wondered if a jury would believe him—and more importantly, if _she_ would believe him.

From the window above her bed, a shaft of sunlight pushed its way through the curtains that she thought she had drawn tight shut. A dust mote hopped along the sunbeam and idly she followed it with her eyes as a current of heat from the floor vent carried it over the bed. The heater cut off momentarily and the mote dropped, landing a black wool coat lying on the straight chair.

Snow frowned. Gold had forgotten his coat. How was it the old man had gotten all the way out to the street without noticing the cold? She'd better run it downstairs and try to catch him before he caught his death—she chuckled at the irony of that. She stuffed her feet into her slippers as she tucked the coat under her arm. She started for the door—and something clattered to the floor. Something shiny and metal. Something familiar.

She picked it up and ran her finger lightly across the name engraved in the _bilah_: Rumplestiltskin. With a hard thump she sat back down on the bed, the Armani coat pooling at her feet.

She sat with the dagger lying in her open palms. She couldn't bear to close her hands around it: whenever she did, jolts of electricity shot through her skin. It wasn't painful: on the contrary, she found it invigorating. Even if she didn't know what this thing was, those jolts would be enough to inform her it was extraordinary—and potentially dangerous.

As her fingertip skimmed the edge of the wavy blade, flashes of light filled her mind. When she held her finger still, the flashes became images: glimpses of a passing truck, the Sycamore Street sign, a broken curb, the sailor's wheel in the bakery window, the tip of a cane touching down on a sidewalk a heartbeat before a black Ferragamo shoe did.

The dagger was showing her what Gold was seeing as he walked back to his shop.

She swallowed hard.

"_The Dark One finally can be controlled."_

_"You see, in the end, it isn't good or evil that wins, but power."_

_"I don't care about justice any more."_

Watching the town go by through Gold's eyes, Snow called back to mind every legend she could remember about the Dark One. She couldn't recall a time when she didn't know about him: his legend always hung as a looming shadow in the background of everyday life. It was, strangely, something royals, nobles, merchants, clergy and the poor shared in common: fear and awe for the Master Mage, the one who couldn't be killed, and therefore couldn't be stopped.

Except for this. The dagger wouldn't hold still in her hands—or perhaps it was that her hands couldn't hold still, holding it. She expected the steel blade to feel cold, but it didn't: when she pressed her finger into it, not enough to cut herself but just enough to bite, she could feel a steady throbbing in the metal, beating asynchronously to her own pulse. Nervously she licked her lips. She was feeling Gold's heartbeat. Literally, she had her finger on the Dark One's pulse. She gasped and dropped the dagger.

It landed on the lapel of the coat, and she let it lay there for a long time. She leaned forward, staring at it. The heater clicked on again and a blast of warm air rose from the vent, making one of the coat sleeves flutter. She wondered if Mr. Gold was shivering without the protection of his coat, and then she wondered if Rumplestiltskin was shivering without the protection of his dagger. Did he even feel its absence? Did he feel her hand as she picked it up again?

What the hell was the man thinking, anyway, walking around with the dagger in his coat, where a mugger could stumble upon it, where it could slip out into the gutter and he'd not even feel it fall? Just days after almost losing it to Cora!

She chewed her thumbnail.

What if the legend was wrong? What if this was just a knife, not magical at all: a McGuffin? What if _he _had been the one to start the rumors, to give would-be power-grabbers like Cora a false lead? What if the real thing that could control him was in his shop somewhere, probably some ordinary object sitting out in plain sight? That chipped cup maybe—maybe it had something more than sentimental value after all. That would be just the kind of trick the imp would come up with.

She gripped the handle firmly and a burst of electricity coursed up her wrist, all the way to her shoulder, and then she knew for sure the dagger was real. Her entire body _relaxed_ under the electrical pulses and thought flew into her mind: _you never have to be afraid again. _

"Yes," she said. "Safe." Emma, Charming, Henry—Regina would never harass them again. The dwarves, Granny, Red, no one could harm any of them ever again, because all she had to do was speak his name and this dagger would summon the world's most powerful watch dog. Blue, the nuns, the kids at school, Archie, all safe, forever.

Belle, if she ever got her memory back. The dagger could protect her against Gold's seduction. Break the spell he had her under—the Stockholm Syndrome, this world called it; a curse, her world called it. The sweet little thing had suffered enough.

A test. A tiny test, just to find out how the dagger worked. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the images his eyes were taking in: a doorknob, a ring of keys, a threshold, a wood laminate floor that needed sweeping. "Rumplestiltskin," she whispered over the dagger, as she had whispered over the black-and-white candle. "Drop the cane."

Through his eyes she watched the tip of the cane catch in a fissure in the laminate. The Ferragamo slid and the cane clattered to the floor. His hand, the one with the ring, retrieved it and he resumed his trip across the front room to the workroom.

Snow wriggled. One more test, in case that was just a coincidence. Something that couldn't possibly be an accident: "Pick up the Mickey Mouse phone and call the Man in the Moon, order a pepperoni pizza. . dearie."

The Ferragamos abruptly halted, made a forty-five degree turn. She watched his hand slide the glass cabinet open, reach in, take out the colorful phone and set it on the counter. His finger poked twelve times at the oversized buttons. She chuckled: so Gold had the Man in the Moon's phone number committed to memory. She heard him speak into the receiver: "Gold here. I'd like a sixteen-inch pepperoni, crunchy crust, extra red peppers, delivered to my shop. Thank you." He hung up and proceeded to his workroom.

She laid the dagger on her pillow and wiped her hands against her slacks. Now that she wasn't focused on him, she could hear a radio on in the apartment downstairs, traffic in the street. She could hear her own heart beating.

She'd made him drop his cane and order a pizza: that meant she could make him. . . reduce the rent on all his properties. Show mercy to those who owed him money. Donate to charities. Walk the dogs in the animal shelter. Speak kindly (for he was always polite, but never kind) to those he passed on the street. Smile, and mean it.

She could make him into a warm, giving grandfather, the kind who would take Henry fishing and tell him stories and help him with his algebra. She could make him into the open-hearted husband Belle deserved. She could mend his relationship with his son, with the community. Who knows, she could even make him into Storybrooke's next mayor. Nothing wrong with any of that. She could do so much good with his power.

And most of all, she could keep her family safe, for generations to come.

She held the dagger again and watched him select some books from a shelf, slide them into a briefcase, walk back across the showroom and out the front door. His hand shivered as he locked the door; his fingernails were turning blue. She wished he hadn't forgotten his coat. She picked up the coat and smoothed it on her lap, ironing out the wrinkles. Too bad he didn't treat people with the same respect he treated his clothes.

_"You're so sure of her black soul?"_

Snow was sure of his black soul. He'd shown it to her less than an hour ago. Black as sin—but not completely.

_"__I won't apologize for sparing her life. Not when there's a chance she might change."_

_"Regina redeemed – what a novel thought. And, um… How do you plan to accomplish such an impressive feat?"_

_"I don't even know if it's possible. I'm probably just fooling myself."_

_"Maybe you need someone to show you that it is possible."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Simple. I provide you with a test to help determine whether the Queen can truly change."_

She'd given Regina innumerable chances to reform, most of them unasked for. When had she, or anyone else, given Rumplestiltskin such a chance?

Oh, but she'd given him his life back. Wasn't that enough? Shouldn't he have expressed his gratitude by changing his behavior? He had his son sort of back, plus a wonderful grandson: shouldn't that be enough to reform him? If the legends were true, the imp was more than 300 years old: that alone was opportunity enough for reform. Snow wouldn't make the same mistake with Rumplestiltskin as she had with Regina.

She turned the dagger over to the smooth side, and she saw her reflection there. She thought back on the stories of those who controlled Dark Ones throughout the ages. The stories were sketchy: the primarily interest had always been in the actions of the Dark Ones, not the lives of the Dark Ones' handlers. But what she did know was that they'd all lived very short lives, most dying at the hands of dagger thieves. Oh, but that was then. Snow lived in a civilized world now, overseen by her daughter the sheriff and her husband the deputy. Besides, who in Storybrooke would want to steal the dagger from Snow White?

So much good she would do with this power. _Only_ good. Not that she was fooling herself: she could make mistakes. She could even be mean. But she had a family to keep her from temptation. No way would she fall prey to the evil inherent in this power.

Would she?

In her first two commands, she had ordered the Dark One to do something that could have injured him, and she had forced him to make a fool of himself. What would she do with him, to him, an hour from now? A week from now?

Five days ago, she had held another person's heart in her hand. She'd given serious thought to using that heart to control Cora. And when she'd been given the means to easily kill her enemy, she'd taken it. To protect her family, Snow had told herself; to protect her town.

How many days would pass before she'd use this dagger to kill another enemy?

_"If we give up the dagger, we can still win."_

Listening to David's voice in her memory, she wondered what he would say about the dagger now.

_"They will find strength through your goodness."_

_"That was strength. Strength to resist darkness."_

"Oh, Mother. You always knew what was right." Snow bent her head over the dagger and began to cry.

* * *

She greeted Gold at the door. She didn't give him a chance to set his briefcase down: with her left hand she offered him his coat; with her right, the dagger. "You left these."

"So I did." He laid the briefcase on the kitchen table. He took the coat, draping it over a chair. He looked at her for a moment before accepting the dagger. "Thank you." He opened the briefcase and dropped the dagger in among the books, then closed the case and drew his coat on.

She chased after him as he walked out. "Wh-where are you going? What about my trial?"

He stopped and gave her a half-smile. "It's over."

"But. . .the jury? The judge?"

"Have you heard the term 'McGuffin,' Your Majesty?"

Her mouth dropped open.

"The jury, the judge and so forth were a McGuffin. A means for getting David and Emma out of the house so you could think in peace. The real trial, the one you needed, has been completed." He shifted the briefcase to his right hand. It was awkward to hold it as well as the cane in one hand, but he'd had years of practice. He held out his left hand towards her. "May I?"

She understood what he was asking. Straightening, she permitted him to sink his hand into her chest and withdraw her heart. His eyes fixed on hers; he seemed not the least bit curious about the heart in his hand. His eyes told her what she wanted to know, but she peeked at his hand to confirm it.

Her heart, large, crystalline, beating. Spotless.

He returned it to her chest. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty." The briefcase went back into his left hand and with his cane he navigated his way down the stairs.

From her doorway she watched him go. "Good afternoon, Rumplestiltskin."

He paused in the foyer and looked back over his shoulder. When her door closed, he set his briefcase down, and reaching into his chest, he withdrew his heart. There was just a little more pink and a little less black in it now.

He smiled. Broadly.


End file.
